


When It's Good to Be Wrong

by ConsultingWriter



Series: Home Fires [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dragon!Lock, Dragon!Sherlock - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Mycroft&Hamish, Parent!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriter/pseuds/ConsultingWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this headcanon: Headcanon! Mycroft is worried about John being right for Sherlock. Afraid that the 'oddness' of everything will catch up with him, or the novelty will wear off and he'll leave. But then when Mycroft is watching the egg (because Sherlock is sick, and John is at a medical conference or something) The egg gets taken. Cue BAMF John kicking ass and taking names because strangeness aside, no one touches his son. He gets the egg back, Mycroft is reassured and Sherlock is equal parts smug and smitten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When It's Good to Be Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Link to head canon here: http://noswordsforlittledragons.tumblr.com/post/64911884503/headcanon-mycroft-is-worried-about-john-being-right
> 
> I tried really hard to do this headcanon justice, because its beautiful. I just hope that I succeeded.   
> Unbeta'd as per usual. Enjoy!

It was something out of an action movie, Bond or some other dreadful film like it, Mycroft was sure of it. He was tied to a chair, drowsy from the injection his attackers had given him and the head wound that had been inflicted afterwards—and heads would roll because of the incident, these criminals never should have had the opportunity to get so close. 

The day had started out as they usually did for Mycroft, with a text from his assistant—she had called herself Ann Marie that morning—with his schedule for the day, but it had been closely followed by a text from Sherlock. 

**_Sick, going to cabin. John at conference; watch egg.—SH_ **

The older Holmes had heaved a sigh; judging by the choppy sentences and lazy wording, Mycroft concluded that his brother truly was sick. He pursed his lips about the second half of the text. 

John Watson. When Mycroft had first met the blonde, he knew he would either be his brother’s— _sonminechild_ , his dragon mind rumbled—greatest strength or his biggest weakness. He’d been relieved when John had turned out to be the former, at first, anyway. As time marched on and John went from flatmate to friend to lover to mate, Mycroft grew concerned; John Watson was an understanding human, yes, but that was exactly it—he was only human.   

So when Sherlock had told John what he was, what the entire Holmes family was, Mycroft had been worried. He’d felt for sure that John Watson would run from Sherlock, perhaps even accuse him of insanity, but the man didn’t. He’d looked Sherlock in the eye and said that it was fine, that it was _all fine_. No demands for proof or that Sherlock stay far, far away, just simple and honest acceptance. 

Mycroft had sighed in relief that day; Sherlock had found someone who loved him for who he was, but that relief had been short lived when Sherlock announced that he’d presented John with their egg. 

The blonde had once again accepted Sherlock, but there was no relief for Mycroft because he knew. He knew that the novelty of having a dragon as a husband would eventually wear off and the truth would settle in. That John Watson had bound himself to something non-human and that his child would be the same, a beast from children’s fairytales; and on that day, the doctor would pack his bags and go. Leaving his brother— _sonminechild_ —and nephew— _grandchildmine_ —heartbroken and on their own. 

With those thoughts circling in his head Mycroft hand prepared himself for the day, canceling and rescheduling appointments and packing folders and files into his briefcase; he might not be going into work but that didn’t mean that he didn’t have things that needed to be done. 

An hour and a half later he was standing outside of 221 Baker Street, tapping his umbrella impatiently against the ground as he waited for Sherlock to shuffle down and open the door; the younger man had started to firmly insist that Mycroft wait to be invited up instead of just letting himself in when he and John had become intimate and Mycroft had willing complied with that demand. The last thing he wanted to see was his brother— _sonminechild_ —and his husband having sexual relations. 

At that moment, though, no one was there to answer the door so he let himself in and made his way up the stairs. 

Sherlock was curled tightly in his chair, blanket draped like a shawl over his shoulders. He looked, in Mycroft’s opinion, pathetic in a way he hadn’t seen his brother look in years. Puffy eyes stared back at him and snot dripped from a long, pale, nose like a broken faucet. Sherlock’s egg was settled into the red high-backed chair that had long become John’s; it was wrapped in an oatmeal-colored jumper, Sherlock’s coat, and a thick duvet—which Mycroft could tell came from his brother’s bed. 

Mycroft had sighed through his nose and waved his brother away “There’s a car outside that will take you to the cabin.”

It was a testament to how his brother— _sonchildmine_ —felt when he didn’t prod at Mycroft’s weight or snip about abuse of power, but instead heaved himself up and out of the chair and slowly shuffled out of the flat and down the stairs.

Mycroft had stared at the closed door for a beat before striding over to scoop his nephew— _grandchildmine_ , and really, he head was starting to hurt from the war it was waging against itself—out of his nest of blankets to hold it closer to his chest and settling down in the chair himself. 

The next few hours flowed by in a smooth rhythm of paperwork and rocking the egg back in forth as one would a child. 

After that is where things get hazy for him when he tries to remember. 

What he did does remember is a thudding headache, a groggy feeling, the struggle he went through to pry his sandbag heavy eyelids open, and the sound of several faded ‘pops’ that he recognized but couldn’t place. The second thing he realizes is being tied to a chair, his brother’s— _sonchildmine_ –egg was perched precariously on the flat seat of worn stool. 

A growl rumbled up in his throat as his body threw itself forward, straining against his binds, without his permission at the sight of such a precious thing being handled so carelessly. He slumped over his bindings, dizzy and weak from the drugs, unable to muster up the strength to break through the simple rope they’d tied him down with. 

That was when the door swung open with a crack as the bolt was torn from the door’s frame. Mycroft only caught a glimpse of a booted foot lowering back to the ground before John Watson stormed in, one gun in each hand and another strapped into a holster at his thigh. The blonde human’s normal jumper and decently fitted denim jeans were replaced with a pair of cargo jeans and a fitted t-shirt that was torn in a few places and splattered with fresh blood. Mycroft also noted that the blonde man had a shallow but large wound—switchblade, he was slashed in a close quarters confrontation, Mycroft quickly observed—along his side. 

Before Mycroft had time to piece together anything else, John was firing off shots and Mycroft could hear pained grunts and thuds as John hit his targets and they fell to the floor one by one. 

It really, Mycroft reiterated again as he watched his brother’s— _sonchildmine_ —mate swing a leg up into a round house kick that landed solidly in one of their captive’s faces, was exactly like an idiotic spy film. With a quick flick of his thumbs John released the empty clips from his guns and with a methodic, well-practiced series of movements dug into one of his pockets and clicked two more loaded clips into place.  Before he approached either Mycroft or the egg, however, he swept the room one last time; clearing it with a level calmness only a tried and true soldier could manage. 

After a beat John lowered his guns, but didn’t relax and instead strode over to his egg. Mycroft watched as the hardened soldier tucked the gun in his left hand into the back of his trousers’ waistband and gentled as he scooped the egg up from its perch and brought it into his chest to cradle it safely before marching over to free Mycroft from his chair. He tucked the other gun back with his first and pulled a pocketknife from one of his belt-loops, cutting the ropes that held Mycroft in place with a few easy sawing strokes of the knife against the coarse fibers. 

“Someone ordered for my child to be kidnapped Mycroft,” the blonde said, ice blanketing his words like fallen snow, and tucked the knife into one of his pockets, “I want them found, I want them found and I want them killed.” 

There was a fierce blaze in his eyes and his voice was steady, and for the first time, Mycroft wondered if he had been wrong about John Watson. He wondered if he had it wrong, that instead of leaving John would not only stay with Sherlock and his hatchling but would fight to keep them at his side. He wondered if maybe instead of just being ‘the wrong choice’, that John Watson was ‘the only choice’ for Sherlock. 

As these thoughts circled around his head he leaned heavily on John, unable to stand on his own. The other man shouldered his weight easily and helped him out of the building. As they limped through the hallways, Mycroft took note of the bodies lying sprawled out unmoving in the corridors; the human had not left a single one of the kidnappers alive, confirming the suspicions that had already taken seed in his head. Yes, John Watson was the only choice for Sherlock. The only mate that his brother— _sonchildmine_ —could take that would always love and protect not only him, but their offspring as well. 

Mycroft sighed as John gently manhandled him into the car that awaited them outside of the worn down building, he could already hear Sherlock’s smug voice in his head, the ‘I told you so;’ but that was fine, something told Mycroft that, for once, he wouldn’t mind being wrong.

No, Mycroft decided as he watched the man that had just killed so many cradle his son to his chest and coo lovingly at the cream colored, freckled egg that housed his son, he wouldn’t mind being wrong about John Watson at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I've been so slow on the updates guys, but I was a complete lazy ass over Christmas break who didn't do much of anything. Hope this balanced out a month of almost no activity out some. 
> 
> As always, you can find me on NoSwordsForLittleDragons.tumblr.com


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